Sir is on His 5th brush.
Every night, I sit on the floor in the corner of the couch’s L. This couch is higher, so I perch my bottom precariously on two stacked pillows.
Sir stretches out on the chaise end.
Hand me my brush.
(Notice, He does not say ‘the’ brush. Nor does He say ‘your’ brush. He says ‘my’ brush. Such a silly little sentence, but one that makes me warm and fuzzy each time.)
I hand Him His brush and the dance begins. He will sometimes begin right away, other times He waits a few minutes. No matter, once He starts I am on cloud nine. He brushes my hair, scalp to ends so very gently at first. I am not tender-headed in the least, so gentle to me is probably torture to many. When tangles are discovered, He works them out. Once He is sure all the tangles are gone, He ups the pressure. Assaulting my head with a whirlwind of sensation. He brushes, tugs my hair, noodles my scalp. This newest brush has copper bristles that don’t bend or give at all! Sometimes I yelp when He bonks my skull, but that doesn’t deter Him. He perseveres (and usually bonks it some more, for good measure).
When He’s finished brushing, He will gather my hair in His fist and hold it taut in a ponytail, pulling my hair so hair I have to struggle to keep my head up. After a few minutes of the give and take, He will loosen slightly so my neck has full motion again, and He begins massaging the ever-present knots in my shoulders and back. This ritual goes on for a very long time. Thirty minutes? An hour? I’m not sure, but so long that I start to think He should stop, His hands must be killing Him! Sometimes I get thoughts in my head that say I’m not worth this attention, I do not deserve Him. He quiets those thoughts the moment I speak them.
So there we sit, locked in a subtle display of our power dynamic – Him above, anchoring me with hands and love and strength; me below, simply belonging to Him, giving over all that I am.
When I become tired, or He is ready, I flip to my knees, belly up and ask if I may get His water for bed. If I don’t ask properly, I must redo it until I get it right. Sometimes, I play. Shhhh… don’t tell… but sometimes I ask a little wrong, a little silly, because my second favorite thing to do with Sir is laugh. 😉
Sooner or later, I get up to get our water and it is then that brushes get broken. (I didn’t forget what this post was about!) He will tell me to bend over, or grab me, or simply take a swing as I walk away. Using the brush as a paddle, He brings the pain the same way He brought the pleasure. That’s how I like it – pain and pleasure intertwined, indiscernible. But brushes weren’t built for that, you know!
And so it goes that Sir is on brush number five.